Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” said Jerry while standing at attention.

“At ease, Mr. Mitchell. Please sit down,” replied Young. Jerry quickly moved over to a chair and seated himself across from the commodore. “In my discussions with your XO,” Young continued, “he tells me he is very pleased with the progress you’ve made on your qualifications thus far. He also says your pace to date is one of the fastest he’s seen. I don’t know whether you realize it or not, but that is high praise from Bob Bair. Especially since he qualified under me in record time on Batfish back in the mid-nineties.”

“I’ve been fortunate, sir. The XO has been very supportive of my efforts and the Captain has given me numerous opportunities to get my drill requirements completed.” Jerry winced internally and hoped that didn’t sound too much like a backhanded compliment.

“I’m sure he has,” replied Young matter-of-factly. “Still, you had to do the work necessary to capitalize on those opportunities and that is what has impressed your XO.” Leaning back in his chair, Young opened a folder in front of him and examined its contents for a moment.

He then looked up at Jerry and said, “In reviewing your record, Lieutenant, I have to admit that I’m pleasantly surprised myself. I’ll be frank with you. I was opposed to your transfer from aviation to submarines. I didn’t like how you went about using family political ties to force the issue. But your performance to date has met or exceeded all the requirements placed on you. You graduated in the top twenty-five percent of your class at Nuclear Power School. You were the first officer to qualify as Engineering Officer of the Watch on your crew at prototype, as well as graduating third in your class overall. And you finished fourth in your class at the Officer’s Basic course at Submarine School. I can’t help but draw the conclusion that you are trying to prove a few flag officers wrong.”

Jerry was getting more uncomfortable as Captain Young went on. He had been expecting questions on system specifications and procedures, not an overall evaluation of his past performance coupled with a statement that could be interpreted as an accusation, even if it was an accurate one.

“Sir, I made a promise to do my utmost if they approved my transfer. I’m just trying to hold up my end of the bargain.”

“Relax, Lieutenant. I’m not accusing you of anything. Part of that deal you made required that your progress be reported up the chain at each phase. Since you’ve been assigned to my squadron, you’re my responsibility now. I just thought you’d want to know the gist of my report.”

“My apologies, sir. I guess I misunderstood what you meant by proving senior officers wrong,” replied Jerry sheepishly. “And I do appreciate your comments, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I better ask you at least one question before we move on to the next topic. I can’t let you out of here with just a pep talk, now, can I?”

“Sir?” responded Jerry, curious as to what the commodore meant by the “next topic.”

“How many EAB connections are there on this ship?”

Initially startled by the Commodore’s question, Jerry quickly recovered and answered, “Approximately eight hundred sixty, sir.”

“Really. Are you sure of that, mister?” demanded Young.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,” replied Jerry.

“Very well, then. How do you justify that number?”

“There are one hundred sixty-nine EAB manifolds on this boat, and each manifold has four connections. That makes for a total of six hundred seventy-six connections in the EAB system itself. However, assuming a normal complement of one hundred thirty men and a one hundred and forty percent load out of EAB masks, and each mask has a connection on it, that gives another one hundred and eighty-two. This brings the grand total to eight hundred fifty-eight connections, sir.”

“Am I to understand that you’ve personally counted each and every EAB mask?” pressed Young.

“No, sir. I looked up the EAB loadout in the ship’s data book and then asked the DCA what Memphis had on his last inventory. He said he didn’t remember the exact number, but he was very confident we had at least that many masks on board, he thought we might even have a few extra as well. I never verified the actual number, hence my answer of approximately eight hundred sixty.”

Jerry felt strangely calm after his little dissertation to the commodore, who simply sat there and looked at him. Silently, Jerry thanked Chief Gilson for being so thorough during his damage control checkout. While a long and painful ordeal, with numerous lookups that Jerry had to answer afterward, he now knew his DC equipment cold and that little extra detail on the EAB connections had just come in very handy.

A slight smile broke out on Young’s face as he said, “I would have been happy with the number of connections on the manifolds, but you are quite correct, Mr. Mitchell. Well done.” Young opened the folder again and quickly wrote a few notes down. Probably something along the lines of “Mr. Mitchell is a smart-ass,” thought Jerry.

“Umm, sir, you mentioned another topic?” asked Jerry, trying to move the interview to a rapid conclusion.

“Yes, yes, I did,” replied Young as he closed the folder. “We have one more drill to run, a battle stations torpedo drill, and I’m going to need your help in conducting the exercise. How much time do you need to prepare the Manta for launch?”

“About thirty minutes, sir. May I ask what you want me to do?”

“I want you to pilot the Manta as a hostile submarine in a mock attack against Memphis.” answered Young.

Jerry felt a cold sweat forming on his forehead. “Y-you, you want me to fight against the Captain and the rest of my crew?”

“Not exactly, Lieutenant. One of my staff will tell you what to do. I just need you to guide the Manta accordingly.”

I am royally screwed, thought Jerry. Hardy won’t bother with the commodore’s little distinction if Memphis does badly during the drill — the CO would place the fault squarely on him and would chew on his butt all the way back to New London. And with a staff rider looking over his shoulder the whole time, Jerry couldn’t intentionally make it easier for his crew. Frantically, Jerry tried to think of a way out of this dilemma.

“Sir, I must inform you that I’ve never flown the prototype off of Memphis. I have lots of simulator time and some hours with the smaller prototype at Newport, but none with the UUV we are carrying right now.”

“Yes, I was aware of that,” responded Young. “All the more reason to conduct this exercise, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jerry desperately wanted to say, “Hell no, sir!” but he couldn’t say that to the man who was sending a progress report on him to those reluctant flag officers. Besides, his Navy training had drilled into him that there was only one correct answer.

“Yes, sir. When do you want to launch?” Jerry tried to sound more confident than he felt. And right now he felt like a trapped animal, with nowhere to go.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Young jubilantly. “Report to the torpedo room in fifteen minutes. Lieutenant Commander Monroe will meet you there. And Mr. Mitchell, not a word to any other member of your crew.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Jerry as he stood up and left the wardroom.

Once he was out in the passageway, Jerry leaned up against the bulkhead and tried to reduce the knot he felt in his gut. He really wanted to talk to Lenny. He needed Berg’s unique insight to help him with this one, but he was under explicit orders not to speak to anyone about the drill. Fearing that his resolve wouldn’t hold up if he returned to his stateroom, Jerry headed aft toward the torpedo room.